


Under the cherry trees

by cerisebio



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angel Katsuki Yuuri, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Painter Victor, Self-Destruction, we all know he’s an angel but literally here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16685881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisebio/pseuds/cerisebio
Summary: Victor is a successful artist but his life is sad and lonelyHe doesn’t know that someone is here for him, all the time, invisible





	Under the cherry trees

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Sous les cerisiers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16409117) by [cerisebio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisebio/pseuds/cerisebio). 



> This is a translation of my own work in French. Bear in mind that English isn’t my native language so if there’s anything wrong don’t hesitate to tell me.
> 
> Don’t ask where the idea came from, I woke up one morning with all the storyline in my mind
> 
> Fun ad I just had the idea and started writing I learnt it was international mental health day. So I guess it was meant to be.

Victor made a wide angry brushstroke on the canvas, smeared it violently to eradicate his work.

Nothing. Art block.

Success had come, quick and heady, and he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet. Medias loved him, the public was expecting him, art galeries demanded him. The whole world seemed to rest on the young man’s frail shoulders. 

But if Victor couldn’t surprise anymore and reinvent himself he wasn’t an artist. He could as well be dead.

He felt as empty and brittle as an empty shell. He had no substance and if someone stepped on him, he would crumble. Nothing mattered and his works reflected this.

"I’m exhausted" he mumbled.

Everything seemed like too much of an effort. He simply gave up canvas, brushes and palette, and removed his stained shirt before collapsing on his bed.

  
***

 

Worried, Yuuri frowned and his eyes went from the canvas where the fresh paint ran down like tears, to the bed. Victor had curled up in the duvet and only his long silver hair was visible.

Yuuri leaned to glimpse at the artist’s face: his too pale skin made the huge dark circles around his eyes stand out and his unshaved cheeks were hollow. Again, Yuuri frowned, tried to remember when Victor last ate. Humans needed food, he didn’t know how often or how much, but he at least knew that. His protégé wasn’t taking care of his basic needs anymore.

These last few years, Yuuri had chosen him, drawn to the sad and lonely aura Victor was hiding behind a charming smile. The guardian angel shouldn’t have gotten attached to his protégé, but his heart clenched when he saw the artist struggling and losing his inner light.

He had to do something. Restless, Yuuri ruffled his wings, paced the room, searching for an idea. Guardian angels could protect from accidents, give luck a little help -like pushing the right critic in front of the right artwork for example-, but couldn’t do anything about the talent, work or feelings of humans.

Yuuri suddenly froze. He had no idea if it would make a difference, but he had to try.

 

***

  
A gentle breeze ruffled Victor’s hair, carrying a spring perfume. He opened his eyes.

Above him a cloud of pink flowers hid parts of a pure blue sky. The temperature was mild, far from his freezing winter.

Surprised, he sat, looked around him.

"It’s a dream Victor"

He jumped. The voice came from behind, so he turned around.

And gasped.

The huge immaculate white wings left no doubt: standing in front of him was an angel. His soft face was the purest Victor had ever seen and his brown eyes burned with a reddish flame.

"What the... Who are you?"

The angel seemed flustered at the question. He pondered for a moment before stepping closer and reaching to help the artist get up.

"I’m Yuuri."

Victor took the offered hand, kept it in his own while he tried to catch his companion’s eyes. 

"And my name is..."

"I know your name."

Victor winced and released Yuuri.

"Everyone knows my name," he said, bitter, "but no one knows who I am."

The angel blushed, averted his gaze.

"I’m not like the others, I’ve been watching you for a while." 

At last, Victor understood who Yuuri really was.

"You’re my guardian angel!"

 

***

 

Guardian angels weren’t forbidden to speak with their protégé. However they could only do so through the dreams of humans and the method was supposed to be a last resort. And used sparingly.

Yuuri hadn’t planned on coming back in the next dream. And the next, and the ones after. He just wanted to talk to Victor, encourage him to shake out of his melancholy and not let it take over his life.

But Victor seemed so lonely that Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to return to an invisible presence. It was so easy to chat together and the artist’s smiles became more genuine. While his laughter was scarce when he was awake, it echoed in his dreams.

If Yuuri hinted at Victor’s need for professional help when he woke up, his protégé always changed the subject. Yuuri thus held onto his worry for the artist as an excuse to keep meeting him. Deep inside he knew it wasn’t the actual reason for his lack of caution.

Victor was a tactile person. Often, he would take Yuuri’s hand, rub his thumb over it, while staring with his turquoise eyes.

The angel never tried to move away and an unknown warmth grew in his chest with each little touch.

"What do you like Yuuri?"

The question was unexpected and took him by surprise. Then he smiled and rose from the bench under the cherry tree where they shared their time.

"Let me show you!" Yuuri offered.

Their surroundings transformed in a swirl of petals. An orchestra appeared and a wooden floor spread under their feet. They were in a bandstand in the cherry tree park that accompanied Yuuri everywhere.

The orchestra began to play and Yuuri took Victor into his arms.

"But..." the artist began, stunned, "where’s all this coming from?"

"It’s a dream Victor, we can do whatever we want."

Then Yuuri swept him into a waltz.

Victor’s laughter seemed to fill the angel’s chest with a soft light.

 

***

  
"You’re still alive?"

Christophe had tried to get in touch with Victor for weeks, but the artist had shut himself in. Worried, Christophe ended up barging into his friend’s workshop.

"Chris! It’s been a while!"

"And whose fault is that?" the businessman noted. "But I’m relieved to see you’re okay."

Victor simply mumbled a confirmation, his gaze stuck to his canvas. A young man with blurry features was dancing under a blooming cherry tree, his body a graceful arabesque. The bright and soft art style was miles away from the tormented paintings Victor was famous for.

Taken aback by the change, Christophe glanced around. The recent canvas were all showing the same unknown dancer, glowing in soft lights and colors. As Victor’s patron he was very familiar with his work: the change was radical.

"Did something happen?"

At last, the question caught the painter’s interest. Victor turned to his friend, his cheeks splattered with pink paint spots.

"Where is this coming from?"

"Your paintings. They’re different."

"How?"

Arms crossed, Christophe pondered for a moment.

"It’s as if you were in love."

 

***

 

Yuuri knew he should have ended their meetings long ago. Victor was feeling better, he didn’t need to talk to him anymore.  
But the angel couldn’t bring himself to severe this link. The very idea was unbearable, made his stomach hurt.

"Yuuuuri!"

He turned around. Victor was waving at him, a bright heart-shaped smile over his face, cherry blossoms in his long hair. Yuuri’s chest constricted at the thought of losing him.

Before he had the chance to answer, Victor was hugging him. He spinned Yuuri around, laughing, and his long hair flew around them.

"Yuuri!"

Dizzy, the angel clung to his companion’s shoulders in reflex. He was still light-headed when Victor put him down, so Yuuri kept his arms around his protégé’s neck.

That’s how he tried to justify himself.

"My inspiration came back, I’ve started painting again! The critics don’t like my artworks but I don’t care, they represent our time together. That’s why I love them."

Yuuri felt himself blush at these words, something he had never experienced in several centuries. He was still a young guardian angel, but had already watched over dozens of humans. If sometimes he had gotten attached, none of them had affected him like Victor.

It had to be what humans called love.

The realization left him breathless. He wasn’t allowed, he couldn’t, it was impossible.

Two turquoise eyes were staring at him, curious.

"I can’t paint your face when I’m awake," Victor told him. "I can’t grasp your features. I would recognize you anywhere, anytime though."

Speechless, Yuuri was looking for an answer, but his tight throat wouldn’t let any sound out.

"I know!" Victor suddenly exclaimed. "I’ll just paint you here."

 

***

  
Upset, Victor tried to remember the features of the angel of his dreams once more, failed again. Despite how important Yuuri was to him, more important than anyone before.

With him, Victor could just be himself. Not the orphan in his famous parent’s shadow; not the wayward student; not the young prodigy whose paintings were expected by everyone.

Just Victor.

He slept as much as he could, napping in addition to his nights, with only one thing in mind: spending more time with Yuuri.

He was late delivering his orders, his social life was lacking, but he didn’t care. Only his haven under the cherry trees seemed real and made him happy.

With a sigh, he grabbed his palette knife again to add more volume to the wings on his canvas. For an outsider, it was just any angel; for Victor it had become his whole world.

In his dream, he had painted Yuuri’s face with lots of details. This artwork was beautiful, his masterpiece. If only he could bring it back with him.

If only he could live with Yuuri.

"Of course!"

He just had an idea.

 

***

 

Invisible for his protégé’s eyes, Yuuri watched over Victor’s brooding. Standing next to the painting in progress, he stared at every change on the artist’s face.

At first, their meetings had prompted the later into getting a grip. Now they had the opposite effect. The simple joy of dream-Victor wasn’t conveyed into the real world anymore. And he slept a lot. Too much.

Yuuri hadn’t noticed it right away, he had no idea how many hours of sleep an healthy human needed. But gradually he realized that Victor barely dedicated any time to every other vital activities.

Once again, Victor had lost weight and he seemed almost translucent with his ghostly complexion. Yuuri reached to Victor’s focused face. He brushed the crease between the artist’s eyebrows, unable to touch it.

For the first time ever, he wished he wasn’t just an intangible being. He wanted to hug Victor tightly, stroke his cheek, remove the lock of hair in front of his eyes. Force him to eat, go out, live.

"Of course!"

Yuuri was taken aback by the sudden interjection and moved his hand away as if he just burnt himself. Victor’s gaze had a glint of hope flirting with madness.

A worried shiver ran between Yuuri’s wings.

Oblivious to his presence, Victor rushed to the bathroom, rummaged into the box where he messily stored his medicines. After a few minutes throwing them around him, he yelled, triumphant.

In his hand was a box of sleeping pills. Its expiration date was more than two years ago.

Yuuri rushed to the artist without a second thought. If he craved Victor’s touch earlier, now he regretted it: his powers only allowed him to act on the physical world in case of danger.

The angel shoved Victor’s arm. The drugs fell. Puzzled, Victor stared at them before picking them up.

"Victor! Don’t!"

He could neither hear nor see Yuuri, but the angel still stood in his way.

The painter went through his guardian angel, swallowed two pills and dropped on his bed.

 

***

 

Victor opened his eyes on the cherry trees: a pink rain blurred the landscape around him as the flowers released their last petals.

He stood up, searched his surroundings.

"Yuuri?"

But the angel didn’t answer.

"Yuuri! Where are you?"

The rain stopped, the cherry trees were now naked and the sky dark.

"Victor..."

The artist turned around, delighted, but his smile froze in front of his companion’s grave face. Victor spontaneously took his hands.

"Victor," Yuuri said again with a frown, "what have you done?"

He stared at Yuuri, clueless, tilted his head with a puzzled look.

"Why did you take these drugs?" the angel explained.

"Oh this? I couldn’t sleep more without an outside help and I want to spend all my time with you."

The brown eyes widened with dread and Yuuri took a step back. A bad feeling seized Victor as he let his companion slip out of his grasp.

"It’s my fault," Yuuri stammered, "I never should have..."

He took a deep breath before speaking again with a determined look.

"Victor, your life isn’t here, you can’t spend it sleeping. You have to take care of yourself, bond with real people..."

"But you are real!"

The artist’s cry echoed around them. For a moment they stared silently at each other.

"Kind of," Yuuri whispered, "but not in your world."

He seemed so sad that Victor hugged him tight. His nose nuzzled into the black hair. He breathed in his angel’s familiar scents then moved back to kiss his forehead.

"What we have together is much more real than anything. Before you I had never felt alive."

Tears suddenly fell from the brown eyes and Victor panicked. He opened his mouth to try to understand, to comfort, anything to stop the stream that made him feel helpless.

He didn’t have time for anything though. Yuuri stood on his toes, moved his face closer. The angel pressed his mouth to Victor’s.

The kiss was both soft and bitter, an unspoken promise already broken. The taste of Yuuri’s tears and lips blended together, and everything was disappearing, sweet but unreachable.

"Farewell Victor," the angel whispered.

 

***

  
Victor woke up with his cheeks wet with tears.

He had never felt so desperate and he didn’t know why. Drowsy, he turned to his side and his blurred gaze fell on the sleeping pills box on the floor.

"What the?"

He tried to gather his memories but everything was mixed up. Yesterday -or was it today?- he was working on a painting and tried to escape his frustration by sleeping.

Why?

An elusive shadow haunted the edges of his mind, but despite his efforts Victor couldn’t identify it. He had the feeling that something crucial was beyond his reach, something more important than anything.

A sob took hold of him, unexpected. The artist curled up under the duvet, buried his face into his pillow and let sorrow flood him. For what seemed like an eternity he barely managed to catch his breath between two hiccups.

A beating suddenly resounded on his front door.

"Victor! Victor, let me in!"

Through the fog that trapped him, the painter recognized Christophe’s voice. His limbs weighed three tons, his brain was on the verge of explosion. He pulled the duvet over his face.

His phone rang, the beating became more insistent, the voice more urgent.

"If you don’t let me in right now I’m knocking down this fucking door!"

Victor grunted, let his legs slip over the edge of the bed to sit up. His head was spinning and this damned mobile kept ringing, the screen displayed "Chris" and "1:47 am". If he couldn’t get up, at least he could pick up the phone: it would shut this hellish racket.

"It’s about fucking time!" Christophe yelled -the artist winced, so much for the silence. "I was this close to calling an ambulance."

"Uh?"

"Let me inside."

"Hmph."

"Vic," his friend growled, "if you don’t get your ass over here right this ins..."

"Yeah, okay, I get it."

His own voice seemed foreign to him. He got up with a push on his free hand, and almost fell back, dizzy. He used the walls as a support on his way to the entrance.

Christophe got in like a tornado as soon as the door was unlocked. He caught a disoriented Victor in his arms.

"Okay, I got you. Sorry for forcing you out of bed but I don’t have the keys."

Victor didn’t answer, let himself be led back to the bedroom, where his friend made him sit down on the bed.

"What was even the point," the painter thought.

A glass of water materialized in front of him. That’s when he noticed how dry his throat was: he gulped it all in one go. A moment later, he gobbled a second round.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked Christophe.

The later stared at him with a preoccupied look, glanced at the drugs, came back to Victor’s face.

"You don’t remember calling me?"

"When?"

"About half an hour ago. I complained about the time and you didn’t answer. It didn’t seem to be an accidental call, I had a very bad feeling about this."

Again, he stared at the artist, then bent down to pick up the sleeping pills.

"Seems I was right to worry. Why do you have this kind of stuff?"

That was a good question. It gave Victor a hard time as his brain felt like cotton.

"The doctor prescribed it a few years ago, I threw it somewhere without using it. And went to another doctor after that."

The green eyes scrutinized him and, for the first time since they met, the artist felt uneasy. Exposed.

"I know you avoid the subject," Christophe began carefully, "but have you ever seen someone about your parents’ death?"

"It’s been over five years."

"So? I’m telling you as a friend, because I’m worried about you, but you’re not over it. You’ve fled in your art, were successful and settled for this. You barely let any living being get close to you!"

The painter tried to object but his companion raised his hand in a stern gesture. Ruthless, he went on.

"You look like hell and now you’re taking expired sleeping pills carelessly even though you could kick the bucket? Stop your bullshit, you need help!"

Victor was shook by the unexpected scolding. Looking at the big picture, his self-destructive behaviors were all pointing to a depression that went way back. Some doctors -including the one who prescribed these drugs- had brushed the word and tried to convince him to consult a shrink. But he had refused to listen to them.

In his head a small voice whispered "take care of yourself". Was it a memory or his imagination? He couldn’t put a name or a face on these words.

His shoulders slumped and he admitted his defeat in a murmur:

"You’re right, I need help."

 

***

 

"I want to give up my immortality and my powers, I want to become human."

Phichit watched their supervisor, Celestino, as his jaw dropped from Yuuri’s insane request. He knew his best friend by heart and his determined look didn’t leave room for doubts or arguments.

Lastly, Yuuri had lost his dedication. He was usually so focused on his work that he wouldn’t leave his protégés for a second, would stay by their side until their death and wouldn’t waste any time finding a new person to watch over after that. So Phichit was really surprised to see him back in the divine office, his eyes red and swollen from crying, while his human was still alive.

"I can’t stay with him anymore," he had explained, "it hurts too much. I made sure his friend would come by his side and seeing how he could touch him... I just wanted to be in his shoes."

Angels weren’t supposed to suffer, their body couldn’t be harmed. It seemed different for their heart. Beings with unconditional love, not expecting anything in return, shouldn’t feel any jealousy.

Yuuri had been tainted by other kinds of love, more humane, less divine.

After that Phichit saw his friend wither in front of him.

He didn’t leave his quarters, unless it was to check on Victor. That would only revive his pain and the vicious circle would go on. 

Little by little Yuuri had shut himself in even more and spent most of his time digging into the archives. Phichit attempted to distract him and unsuccessfully tried to discover what he was after.

Now he understood what Yuuri found in his odd quest.

"There are precedents," the later went on while Celestino remained speechless, "other angels became humans in the past."

He put down a bundle of scrolls on his supervisor’s desk, pointed at one of the many lines on the first.

"Here, three thousand years ago. A colleague incarnated himself as an European woman. And here," he shuffled through to show another scroll, "a boy in South America. And also..."

"Yuuri, I know about these," Celestino cut him.

Taken aback, Yuuri stopped in his track, one hand full of scrolls, and stared at his supervisor, blinking.

"Oh."

"It is possible though rare. But why?"

Embarrassed, Yuuri averted his eyes.

"Well, there’s this man..."

"Ah!" Phichit yelled with a teasing smile. "That’s what I thought: you fell in love with a human"

Yuuri’s face turned crimson up to his ears. Once again, Celestino was stunned. Of course he heard of similar cases, but angels usually didn’t feel human emotions.

"Yuuri," he said after a while, "I must warn you: there are conditions. You will have forgotten everything from your celestial life. Including the humans you watched over. I can make sure you become incarnate in favorables conditions, with a loving family and an activity you like, but that’s it. You won’t remember this man."

A deafening silence fell on the trio while they tried to assess the consequences of such a decision.

"Fine," Yuuri said.

Phichit jumped up, he was so upset that his wings were ruffled.

"You’re out of your mind Yuuri! What’s the point of giving everything up for this man if you’ve forgotten him?!"  
His friend turned to him for the first time since this meeting began. There was no hint of fear or doubt in his eyes, he seemed finally at peace.

"If we’re meant to be together, I’ll find him. And I feel I don’t belong here anymore, I can’t protect another human. This is a decision I’m making for me first."

A new silence. Now Phichit understood the human pain of losing a loved one.

Celestino cleared his throat, ending the moment of uneasiness.

"Very well Yuuri. If you could put these scrolls back, we’re going to prepare your terrestrial incarnation."

"Ah! Yes of course."

Yuuri gathered the files in his arms, clumsy from excitment, then got out. 

In his wake he left two stunned angels. Phichit was the first to shake out of it: he marched on Celestino, slammed his hands on the desk and leaned over, determined.

"Find someone else for my current protégée, I want to watch over Yuuri."

 

***

  
  
Victor had needed several years of therapy to overcome his depression. The most difficult part had been to admit he needed help. Somewhere in his subconscious, he had started acknowledging it, but Christophe’s intervention had pushed him to act on it.

Of course, some days were still harder than others, but Victor didn’t fall into self-destructive behaviors anymore. During bad times, he exorcised his demons on the canvas where a faceless man kept appearing over and over again.

This mysterious shadow haunted him. The melancholic mood it gave his work was subject to many speculations from the public, but was part of what made his new fame.

All in all, he was mostly happy despite something lacking in his heart. A hole he didn’t know how to fill.

He fixed his short hair in front of the mirror, smoothed the fabric of his tuxedo, then leaned to pet his dog.

"Watch over the house, Chris convinced me to go out for once."

Makkachin’s adoption helped improve his mental health: the man and the animal adored each other.

 

***

 

Victor hadn’t seen a ballet in ages. Any kind of dance made him strangely nostalgic and, without his friend’s intervention, he wouldn’t be in an opera box that evening.

"The man dancing Romeo is starting to gain some fame," Christophe explained as they sat down. "I’ve seen a few videos and I must say his grace is captivating."

At that moment, the lights faded away. The orchestra had finished tuning its instruments and fell silent; the audience clapped, then held its breath with the first notes of Prokofiev. The acoustic wrapped Victor into the music and gave him goose bumps.  
The first dancers entered to introduce the story, following the instruments.

That’s when Victor saw him.

Captivated, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the male lead, every little gesture he made moved him and he was unable to put a name to his feelings. Victor had never seen anything so beautiful and at the same time these moves seemed familiar.

The ballet went by like a dream, the intermission in a distracted fog. Silent tears ran on Victor’s cheeks with the tragic final, as if he had lost his own true love.

"I didn’t think you were that sensitive to this story," Christophe noted as the artists bowed to the audience. "You know..."

But Victor wasn’t listening nor clapping like everyone. His whole focus was on one figure only, a black-haired man with his cheeks pink from physical exhaustion.

He sprang to his feet, left his seat, deaf to his friend’s stunned call.

 

***

 

Finding an opened flower shop in the middle of the night seemed impossible, but a small street vendor made money by following the hours of the shows. Victor emptied almost the whole booth and walked away with a massive bouquet.

As people left the building, he went around to reach the artists exit. He received a text from a puzzled Christophe as he waited and sent a short answer back.

The door opened on a group of dancers. Victor straightened himself, unsuccessfully searched for him. The prima ballerina, a pretty red-haired woman, looked at him curiously before walking away.

Little by little the whole company passed by Victor, but there was no sign of the person he was looking for.

Finally, just as he started to lose hope, the principal dancer appeared.

For the first time tonight, Victor was seeing him up close. He was now wearing blue-framed glasses and his hair fell over his forehead: it made him look softer, more reachable than when he was on stage.

He froze and their gazes met. The dancer’s eyes widened. Victor thought he saw tears in them.

This time the artist was certain. He knew him, his name was on the tip of his tongue.

In the dark, he thought he caught a glimpse of two huge white wings behind the dancer. A gust of wind carried petals from the cherry tree near by, wrapping around the two men.

"Yuuri..."

 


End file.
